


Eyes Unable to Dream

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: The Autumn Effect [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Arlen - Freeform, Awkward Little Crane is precious, F/M, Gen, Meddling Kids, local shotgun-wielding lunatic, pre-murder, so I shot at him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9653297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: An exploration of Arlen, Georgia, and the dark secrets it hides.





	1. Storm's Comin'

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, look, a Thing! Okay, this is completely self-indulgent trash, pounded out in a little over a week, through a real bitch of a head cold. Seriously, I had clogged ears and everything.  
> Sick Scary aside, this is a miniseries of sorts, set before the Murder Dorks were, well, murderous. God, they were adorable once…takes place after 'Dreaming Dreams No Mortal...', located in 'Phobias'.  
> Title taken from a lyric in Woven Hand’s ‘King David’, because I LOVE THAT LYRIC. Cat burglars gotta have that jewel, I had to have that lyric.

The cornfields jostle and sway in the wind, rippling like water. Storm’s comin’, probably’ll be here by tonight. He’s hoping it’ll pass them by-this old house surely can’t stand much more-but he doubts he’ll be so lucky.

Jonathan sips on too-sour lemonade and finishes the last of his math homework. Waste of time, he knew this four years ago…it’s hardly his fault his classmates need ‘remedial help’. Why should he be punished for their stupidity?

No matter. He stacks the papers neatly, tucks them inside the book, and stows the book itself in his backpack. There. All set for tomorrow (he’s willing to bet that Neanderthal Griggs is staring at his book going, ‘duh, what’s a cross doin’ here?’).

The mental image amuses him. Shame he can’t draw. That might make a brilliant satirical comic. With added amusement that said Neanderthal probably doesn’t know what ‘satirical’ means.

The wind picks up, rattling a window somewhere, and Granny’s voice echoes from downstairs like a demon from Hell itself.

“Boy! Get down here and help me with the windows!”

 _Do it yourself._ he thinks rebelliously, but he wouldn’t dare say it. He likes living, thank you very much.

Besides. Kitty pestered him into coming over tomorrow (he told Granny he’d volunteered to stay after and help clean-earned himself grumbling but nothing worse), and he’s been assured that her mother is formidable. If promised a meeting and not given it, the world could end.

He wouldn’t dream of being responsible for ending the world. Even to a non-believer, that sounds like a ticket to Hell. And Granny will certainly be in this presumed Hell, so…

He checks the hall windows on his way down and is just thinking they got them all when one flies open and nearly hits him in the face. He dodges it-mostly-but it manages to knock his glasses off all the same.

 _Fockin’ hell!_ Kitty’s voice complains in his head, and he’s so grateful that Granny can’t read minds. Swearing is bad. Swearing will land him in his room with no dinner.

Besides, Kitty swearing is funnier. She looks twelve if she doesn’t bother doing her makeup, and the sight is absolutely hysterical. Even if mentioning it makes her yell at him.

 _Especially_ then.

He rescues his fallen glasses-not broken, hallelujah-and muscles the window shut. No rain, not yet, but it smells like water outside.

“Jonathan!”

“I got it, Granny, nothing’s broken.”

She hobbles over to him, cane heavy on the floor-oh, good, she’s hurting tonight-and watches him double-latch the window.

“Go outside and make sure the cellar’s latched up.”

He doesn’t want to. Either through maliciousness or forgetfulness, she’s locked him out more than once. Refusing, though, will get him forced out and locked on purpose, so he ducks out into the whipping winds. The scarecrow, which he suspects is cruel irony more than an attempt at driving off birds, clings desperately to its cross. Hopefully it’ll blow away. Actually, hopefully not-he’ll have to go fetch it, like he did last time. Or make a new one, whichever Granny deems necessary.

The cellar is latched, but he messes with it a little anyway to make sure. The wind bites at the nape of his neck and tries to force his hair into some strange relative of the comb-over. This is gonna be bad.

He’s proven right a second later when a bolt of lightning hits the ground not five from him-he can smell the electricity. Cellar’s fine, time to go in.

He bolts for the door, hoping that tonight he’ll get lucky and the chapel will burn down.

_Please be unlocked, please be unlocked…_

It is, and he’s just closing the door when the sky opens up and the rain comes down.


	2. Little Town (It's a Nosey Village)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since they’re both very young, Kitty’s a little more reckless and Jonathan’s still working on getting his accent gone-gone, which is made a little difficult because EVERYONE ELSE is using it in force. As one does, y’know. So just don’t mention it to him and we’ll all survive this. Also, because no one's around to stop me, I'm puttin' a random song on all the chapters. Call it set dressing, whatever. This one's Blanche's 'Superstition'.

Jonathan privately considers Arlen to be the birthplace of every ‘small southern town’ stereotype. They’re spread out, but everybody knows everybody’s business, you go to church **or else** , and outsiders are welcomed in with wide smiles and gossiped about with wide eyes.

Well. Mostly. To a point. They’ve got their black side, and it’s larger than one would suppose, given the size of the place. Lobotomies happen-the last one he’s aware of took place when he was twelve. **Too** much of an outsider? You’ll be run out. Nothing so blatant as burning crosses or anything, just…social ostracization is a funny thing.

Why in the world the Richardsons moved here, of all places, is a mystery. They’re not churchgoers (Granny was horrified that her nearest neighbors were _heathens_ ), they’re not here for the farming opportunities (such as they are)…why.

He asked, once, out of genuine curiosity. It’s hot, it’s sunny, it’s so…small-town…it has no attraction whatsoever. Apparently Mr. Richardson was writing a book set in the area and wanted the peace. Jonathan doubts that-he was a government worker, for crying out loud-but he let it go. Selfishly, he’s glad. Their presence has granted him with what he hesitantly has dubbed a _friend_.

Kitty Richardson is five foot nothing of big eyes and freckles and giggling that he doesn’t try to understand. She is also, he has decided, fueled by sugar and Short Person Rage. Seriously, it’s the easiest thing in the world to tick her off. All one has to do is use her as an armrest.

Not that he would do that sort of thing, of course.

He’s read a couple of books involving multi-gendered friendships, and apart from the ridiculousness of ‘everybody decides to date at the end’, they also make the error of ‘good girl, idiot boy’.

This is a complete lie, and if he ever writes a book like that, he’s pointing that out. Kitty is always the one getting them into things. ‘Haunted bridge? Come on, let’s sneak out.’ ‘The fuck did you say about my chest, football player twice my height?’

No one believes him, because she’s _tiny_ and because she’s very, very good at looking innocent and what-do-you-mean- _I_ -didn’t-break-his-nose. Maybe he’s biased, but he thinks she could get away with murder, if she tried hard enough.

“Jonathan?” He blinks and looks down. “You okay?”

_FINE FINE EVERYTHING’S FINE NO REASON TO DO SOMETHING STUPID._

“Just tired. Rain kept me up.” She doesn’t look convinced and he’s quick to run damage control. “I don’t think it’s rained like that since y’all moved in.”

He inwardly curses at the slip, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Good.

“Oh, good, so it doesn’t always rain like that.”

“We do get tornadoes.”

“What?” That was a squeak, and that was hilarious. “Tell me you’re joking. Please tell me you’re trying to see how much I’ll believe you.”

“No, we really do get tornadoes sometimes. Nothing awful, but…”

She stares at him in horror.

“I’m going to die.”

He nudges that mental image aside and crams the last of his books into his backpack. There. All set for the weekend, with a bit of light reading to do besides. If he gets any time, and if Granny doesn’t rifle through his backpack again.

He really, really hopes he doesn’t have to spend another night out _There_.

“Yeah, they might have to get you out of a tree.”

“I hate heights!”

“I really doubt you’d be conscious for that bit.” Or alive and he’d like to change the subject now, thanks. “Come on, a tree blew down last night, we have to take the long way home.”

The ground is squishy under their shoes, even after a whole day of sunshine. He wasn’t so lucky as to have the chapel catch fire, but the Higginson’s barn did-they barely managed to save the horse. Jonathan’s glad, on the horse’s behalf-it’s not her fault the owners are idiots.

And burning to death sounds like a horrible way to go.

They have to pass by the property on this route, and he can see the truck’s gone-probably into town proper for nails or somethin’. It could have been worse, as far as he can tell-the roof’s had, but the walls are still standing.

Kitty draws a sucker from her backpack, unwraps it, and waves it in front of him.

“Lick?”

“No, thank you.”

“Scared of cooties*?”

“Cooties are for children.” He leans back, spine cracking. “So are those, for that matter.”

“Only if you go to church.” she says innocently, pursing her lips around one side of it. It takes him a minute to realize what she’s implying and _that_ mental image is going to be a bitch to get rid of. Thanks a lot.

“Kitty-!”

She cackles and promptly chokes. Serves her right.

The horse trots up to the fence. She looks none the worse for wear and she doesn’t shy back when he puts his hand out.

“Are you allowed to do that?”

“Probably not.” he says absently, letting her blow on his palm before leaning over to pat her neck. “Hey there, big girl, you have a rough night?”

She snorts and shifts obligingly so she’s parallel to the fence. Kitty takes a step back.

“Does she bite?”

“Not if you’re careful. Want to pet her?”

She eyes the horse, clearly a little nervous, and finally nods before rewrapping her sucker and sticking it in her back pocket.

“If she bites me, I’m blaming you.”

He grins-this old nag hardly snaps at flies, in all reality-and motions her over. The horse turns her head, mildly interested in the new small creature in the road.

“Put your hand up like this, nice and flat…easy there, big girl, we’re not gonna hurt you…”

The horse bends her head down and nudges Kitty’s palm. Kitty giggles, more of a surprised sound than anything.

“That tickles!”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s, uh…really big.”

“You’re very small.” he points out. She shoots him a dirty look. “I’m just saying.”

The mare finally draws her head back and bends down, cropping the grass at the base of the fence. Kitty pops her sucker back in her mouth and looks at her.

“Does she have a name?”

“No idea.” He shifts his backpack to his other shoulder and leans over to pat her neck again. “Good girl.” There’s the sound of the Higginson’s truck-a rattling thing that’s held together through duct tape and prayer-and he steps back. “We should go. They’re…they don’t like me too much.”

“Does anyone?”

“No.”

She loops her arm through his and he wonders _why_.

“That’s not true.”

“Mm.” No, seriously, why are they now connected. “If you say so.”

“My mum likes you. She says you’re a good influence.” That’s a first, and he’ll be smug about it once he solves the riddle of Why Is She Touching Him. “And I like you, even if you are a goddamn telephone pole.”

Well, that’s nice-wait what he’s very confused.

Also, she’s still touching him and yes it’s nice but there’s no logical reason for it. Books did not prepare him for this. Help.

“Wait. How does she like me? I haven’t met her yet.”

“I’ve told her things.”

Oh god. Like what? What sort of things do normal people tell their guardians about their friends?

He’s doomed.

* * *

He’s not doomed, as it turns out. Mrs. Richardson is a plump woman, a little taller than Kitty (not hard), who practically wrestles him to the dining room table and informs him that he will eat something of his own violation or she will bring out the feeding tube.

“Mu-um-”

“You didn’t tell me this!”

“I did, stop scaring him!”

This has never happened to him before. It’s confusing and he’s starting to wonder if he hit his head or something.

“Oh, Kitty, don’t be dramatic. What do you want to drink, sweetie?”

“Uh, just water, I think-”

“You’re _sure?_ It’s no trouble-”

No. He needs control over this situation.

“No, water’d be fine. Please.” She eyes him as though he might sprout an extra head, but brings him a glass of ice water all the same. “Th-thank you, Ma’am.”

“Don’t you Ma’am me. Mary is fine.”

That goes against everything he knows and it’s just not going to work out. Sorry, Ma’am.

“Mu-um…”

“All right, all right. Behave.”

And with that, she leaves the room and he’s left to wonder what just happened. He thinks he might have just been Mothered, and he’s not sure how to feel about it.

“Mum’s…used to getting her own way.”

Well. He can see where _she_ gets it, then.

He nods, a little overwhelmed, and takes a sip of his water. It’s…nice…in here. Warm. Things aren’t falling apart and his usual _where’s Granny and how mad do her footsteps sound_ senses are quiet.

“Are you eating anything?”

“Motherrrr!”

“I don’t hear chewing!”

Kitty buries her face in her hands and groans, “My god, she’s embarrassing.”

Lest she really have a feeding tube tucked away somewhere, he takes a cookie from the plate. It looks okay. It’s still a little warm between his fingers, even.

Kitty hooks an ankle around a free chair and drags it over to use as a footrest.

“I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have a feeding tube.”

“Pretty sure?” The cookie’s not bad, and he’s relieved to find that it is indeed chocolate chip rather than deceitful bastard, raisin. “That’s…alarming.”

“She was a nurse. We may or may not have some things she borrowed from the hospital upstairs. In case of emergencies.”

“Feeding tube?”

“I’ve never seen one.”

Better be safe than sorry. He reaches for another cookie.

“I expect those cookies gone!” comes a shout from the other room. “Is that clear?”

“Watch your crap telly and stop trying to force-feed him from the living room!”

“Don’t make me come in there!”

That’s it. He knows what’s happened. Either he’s dead, or he’s dying and this is some strange dream.

“We’re eating, Mrs. Richardson.” There. Maybe that’ll placate her.

**“Mary!”**

Kitty plunks her head onto the table and reaches blindly for the plate.

“Kill me now.”

 

*Kitty would more likely use the term _dreaded lurgi_ , but we’ll say she picked up the ‘cooties’ term recently (because the comedic flow would be jarred otherwise, so sue me).


	3. Good Influence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Granny is nuts, but there’s a picture of herself and Jonathan in her room, which implies that she does, in her own twisted way, care for him. That just makes her scarier, in my opinion-human monsters trump boogeymen any day.  
> Song should be familiar to you now-Neko Case's 'Things That Scare Me'. 
> 
> Shout-out to MisterFatcakes, who did some very sweet drawings of the Murder Dorks-they're here: misterfatcakes-art.tumblr.com

Jonathan yawns and rolls over, blinking sleep from his eyes. He has no idea what time it is, but it’s still dark outside. Damned early, then, or damned late. Or somewhere in the middle.

He shuffles downstairs for a glass of water and gets the shock of his life when Granny rasps, “What are you doing down here, boy?”

_DIDN’T EVEN KNOW SHE WAS DOWN HERE CRAP WHAT DO I DO_

“A-a glass of water.” he stammers out. “I couldn’t sleep…”

“Come here.”

It’s dark down here, but he can just make her out, sitting at the dining room table and staring off into space. She’s gotten herself a glass of iced tea (it is _too early_ ) and he wonders how long she’s been down here.

He wants to go back upstairs and hide until morning.

He sits are far away from her as he dares, wondering what she wants and if she’s going to ask him, in that calm tone he knows so well, to explain the books in his backpack.

Or worse.

“You’re not sick, are you, boy?”

“N-no.”

Forget the water, can he go now?

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Come here.”

Every fiber of his being is screaming _DON’T YOU DO IT_ , but that’s suicide. And although he might stand still and let himself be run over, he wouldn’t actively leap in front of a car.

“Bend down. You’ve gotten tall.”

He doesn’t feel it. Not next to her.

Birdy hands cup his face and it’s a monumental effort not to pull back.

“You’re sure.”

His throat decides to close up and he nods as best he can. She finally lets him go and he tries not to _flee_ back to the other end of the table.

It’s not his fault if he has long legs and therefore takes little time to get there.

The china cabinet looms over him like a mouth and he vows that next time he needs a glass of water, he’s going to suck it up and stay in bed.

When she doesn’t say anything else, he gets up and shuffles to the sink. The pipes gurgle and spit and hack out lukewarm water that tastes ever-so-slightly of rust. He likes the taste of rust, he suspects-the water bottles at school taste like nothing and it’s weird.

“I-I’m going to go back to bed, Granny.”

She doesn’t answer and he’s just reaching the doorway when she croaks, “Jonathan.”

_THIS IS HOW I DIE._

“Yes, Ma’am?”

More silence. Then-

“Sleep well, child.”

Oh god, she’s laced the cup with poison. Or something. He’s not going to wake up, that’s what she’s implying.

“Ah, you too, Granny.”

He’s halfway up the stairs when he hears her get up, and he may or may not run the rest of the way up.

* * *

Granny bans him from the house because she has a headache. He takes the opening and grabs a book, heads to the weed-filled No Man’s Land between them and the Richardsons. It’s less oppressive out here, far away from Granny without being so far that she’ll yell at him for going somewhere without permission.

It’s also far enough away from the chapel that the crows shouldn’t take offence to his presence. That’s the important thing here.

He’s nearly finished with his book (it’s thin- _The Turn of the Screw_ ) when Kitty calls his name.

“Jonathan!” He raises a hand and tries not to be surprised when she plops down beside him. “Why are you out here?”

“Granny has a headache, so I came outside.” He sticks a scrap of paper in his book and tilts his head to look up at her. “Why are _you_ out here?”

“I was going to go exploring.”

Exploring? Seriously? There’s nothing to explore.

“Why.”

“Bored.” She reaches over and plucks a strand of grass from his hair before he can dodge her. “Want to come?”

Not really, but with her luck she’ll fall into a ditch or be kidnapped by a wandering salesman or something equally horrible.

“Let me put this back.” he says grudgingly (and it _is_ grudging, this is for her safety, not because he wants to), rising to his feet. Ow. He’s been lying on the ground for too long and he missed several rocks when he cleared his spot.

She eyes him and he really should see it coming, but-

“You might wake your grandmother.”

“I won’t.” If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s not waking Granny. “Just stay here, I’ll be-”

She swipes the book from his hand and takes off running, shouting, “Catch me if you can!”

What? Wait! He didn’t…he just…

“That is a library book, it doesn’t want to explore!”

God dammit.

She had a head start _and_ she’s out of his line of vision, which means it takes him longer than is usual to catch up with her, halfway down the road.

“What was that for?”

“If you woke her up, she might say no.” Likely. “Besides, it got you to smile.”

No it didn’t. He is not smiling. That is an involuntary…

Oh.

That’s not fair.

She looks at the book (it’s unharmed by its kidnapping) and hands it back.

“I like that one.”

“You’ve read it?” This copy’s hardly touched. Someone donated it to the school library, but since he lives in a town of idiots, it’s been read maybe once.

“Yeah, my mum’s got a copy in some anthology.”

Well, well. Somebody else in this town is literate. It’s like a dream come true.

Because nobody else reads, is all. Not because it’s her specifically.

“Well, you got me up. Now what.”

“I dunno.” She twists a loose strand of hair between her fingers and he’s tempted to stick it behind her ear where it belongs. Or give her a hair clip, since it’s always _that_ strand that’s escaping. At least, she’s always messing with it, so he presumes it’s that strand. “Any more haunted bridges?”

“No.” It _is_ that strand, because if she’s not playing with it it’s making a little brown line on her face. Which he knows because she sits across from him in history, is all. He can’t _not_ notice, at that angle. “But we could go see if Old Man Wicker’s out today.”

She blinks at him and that strand is really starting to annoy him because it’s out of place why won’t she put it back.

“Old Man Wicker.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“I am not! That’s his name.”

“That’s what’s on his birth certificate.”

“Wicker’s on his birth certificate and he’s old. Come on. He’s interesting. He shot at me once.”

She snorts and for a second he thinks she’ll roll her eyes and go, _oh, please, don’t lie_ , but then she gestures.

“After you.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets to keep one of them from fixing that damn strand and continues down the road with some vague idea that he’s going to regret this.

* * *

The Wicker place is really more of the Wicker _shack_ , but that doesn’t have the same ring to it. It’s ways back off the road, surrounded by weeds, with its back to the woods. Well, such as they are. A large collection of spindly trees.

Now, Jonathan lives in the house that kids refuse to go near (they used to ring n’ run, but Granny caught one of them once). So he’s not…scared…of Wicker’s shack _per se_. Healthy apprehension? Oh yeah. And it’s justified. The old bastard shot at him when he was eleven-accidentally took a few too many steps over the property line. Scared him half to death, too, when he came tearing around the corner of the house hollering, “Git off my property, ya damn bastard brat!”

Now, though, nobody’s seen the old man in years, and judging by the weeds, he’s too decrepit or too dead to be a danger. So it’s safe to show Kitty their local Angry Shotgun-Wielding Resident, so long as they stay well on this side of the spindly little fence.

“Does anyone even live there?”

“Uh-huh.” Maybe, anyway. It’s not like anyone wants to go check on the guy. For all they know, he could be a decaying corpse out back. “About killed me when I was eleven.”

“You weren’t joking?”

“No! He really did shoot at me. Barely missed me.”

At least, he’s pretty sure that’s what happened. There were gunshots, and he’s pretty sure one whizzed by his head, but he’d been sprinting for home at the time.

“Why?”

“I trespassed by accident.”

“There’s a fence.”

“There wasn’t a fence at the time!”

She gives him a deeply unimpressed look (that damn strand has gotten loose again, _put it back_ ) and turns back to the house.

“Are you sure someone lives there?” she says, hands gripping the splintery wooden fence. “Because it looks abandoned.”

Why is she touching the fence? That can’t be good.

There’s no gunfire and no shouting, though, so she’s probably fine.

“Well, he used to live there. He could be dead.”

No.

No, no, he didn’t mean to say that! What has he done?

“Either he is or he isn’t.”

“He’s not! He’s not. Just a local legend.” _Please let it go, please let it go._ “He’s not out, now, though, so we should just…”

“What if he’s dead in there?”

“He’s not. Trust me, he’s not. But he _is_ temperamental, so let’s go.”

“What’s he look like?” She lets go of the fence and he breathes a mental sigh of relief. “Is he all horrible and missing an eye or something?”

“Not exactly. But if he sees you, he’ll yell all sorts of clichés at you.” At least, he used to. Jonathan doesn’t make a habit of coming down this way. Used to be Wicker had a big dog that would come sit by the fence and growl at passerby. The dog is surely long dead, but that thing had to be part mastiff or somethin’.

“Why I am I not surprised.”

That wasn’t so bad. It was actually…kind of nice. To get out, he means. Go for a walk. With a friend.

Thirty seconds later, he finds himself mistaken about the dog-it comes around the side of the house.

“Is that a _dog?_ ”

“Uh-huh.”

Either it hasn’t seen them, or it doesn’t consider them a threat. Jonathan would like it to stay that way.

“Come on.”

“That’s a damn pony!”

“About the size of one. Come on.” The dog comes a little closer, hesitant at first, then it starts loping across the weedy field. _“Kitty.”_

“Okay.”

The dog hasn’t reached the fence before they’re gone.


	4. In Which Our Hero Opens His Damn Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song is Brown Bird's 'Blood of Angels'.

He should have thanked his lucky stars and not said anything. And he doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t. It’s just…well…

He has no idea, really. Only that he regrets it and that it’s too late to back out now.

“So,” she’d said, “why’s he so protective of his…erm…shack?”

Some voice in the back of his mind had called, _IT’S A TRAP_ , but he was a little more interested in the fact that she was leaning against his back like she belonged there.

“Why’s who so protective of what shack?”

A cheap deflection, but he was distracted. Why hadn’t she moved yet? He couldn’t be that comfortable.

“Mister Wicker.” She dropped her head between his shoulder blades. “Either there’s treasure in his garden or you were doing something you shouldn’t have, and deserved to get shot at.”

“I wasn’t doing anything!”

And that’s how he got himself into this situation. To be fair, it was either this, or lose his newfound Good Influence status.

Though he probably doesn’t need to go into such detail. He’ll blame that on her. He’s distracted by the closeness, that’s all.

“It really _was_ an accident, the fence was down and I didn’t realize I’d taken a few too many steps to the right.”

“Uh-huh.”

She doesn’t sound convinced and he scrambles, amid the steady _why isn’t she moving this is weird but I kinda like it WHAT DO I DO_ , to justify himself.

“He shoots at everyone that goes on his property, I’m not that special.”

“Why? It’s a shack. _If_.”

Despite the growing idea that he should shut up or lie, he jumps at the chance to spread local wisdom.

“Well,” he says, wondering if he should push his luck and make himself a little more comfortable, “there’s a couple’a theories.”

“Okay?”

Well, it wasn’t a ‘please shut up I’m just trying to be polite’. If anything, she sounds…interested. He doesn’t have it in him to tell her _no_ , either. If only because he’s comfortable right here and he doesn’t want to have to get up and go home.

He’s not above making her wait, though, and he takes his time brushing a patch of dust off his jeans and pulling his sleeve down to cover the curving scar on his wrist.

“The first one’s not true, I don’t think.” he says at last. “Something about gold buried on the property. But I doubt he’d be living in a hovel if he had gold out there.”

“What’s the other one?”

She’ll like this one, he knows she will, which means he has to tell it right.

“Murder.”

He makes her wait some more while he fishes a pilfered ‘cough drop’ (the school tries to pass off candy as cough drops because they’re cheaper) out of his backpack and takes his sweet time unwrapping it.

“Jonathan!”

“In a minute.” he says, inspecting his prize for flaws. Satisfied, he pops it into his mouth. Mm. Fake strawberry. “Don’t be so impatient.”

“You said murder.”

“I did.”

“So? You can’t just stop there!”

She bumps her head against his shoulder and he snickers. He most certainly can and will, because it’s funny to make her mad (but not too mad) and also because murder-stories have to be told right. You can’t rush that sort of thing, you’ll ruin it.

He sucks on the candy for another minute before pulling up a handful of weeds and starting to twist them together.

“Supposedly, Wicker had a daughter. She was beautiful, they say, the prettiest girl in town.” Not like that’s particularly impressive, but that’s all right, this is just a story. “And she was all he had in the world-her mother died in childbirth.

Well, Wicker didn’t much like to share her. She hardly ever left the property, certainly not without her father. Had no vis’tas, either-Wicker was trigger-happy even then.”

He turns his attention to the weeds in his hands, feeling her trying and failing not to fidget.

“Well?”

A whole minute. He’s almost impressed.

“What _is_ it with you people? So impatient.”

“Jonathan!” She pokes his neck and he flinches. “I know you’re doing this on purpose.”

But of course.

He sighs, draws up another weed, and continues.

“The day came, in the end, that the girl fell in love. But to add insult to injury, she fell in love with a _farmhand_.” Oh, small-town dramas. “Her father didn’t like that, not at all, and he forbade her to see him. So she planned to run away, to make a new life out of town.”

Stupid girl, really. No one leaves Arlen. He doubts he’ll make it out, in all reality. Granny will kill him before she lets him go.

“Wicker caught her before she got off the front porch, and from there the details get a little hazy. Either he shot her, or worse. Depends on who you ask. Me, I don’t think she got off so easy.” There…just a few more twists here and there. “You saw that big tree by the house, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Personally, I think he strung her up. Would’ve taken a while. Would’ve been a fitting punishment for trying to leave.” There! “Whatever he did, they say she’s buried on the property somewhere, and he doesn’t want anyone trying to take her away from him. Some nights, they say, you can see her walking across the property, pining for what was taken from her.”

He tosses the weed-noose into her lap and she yelps before swatting his arm.

“What was that for?”

“Felt like it.”

She huffs at him and mutters something that might be, ‘fucker’ before sitting up

_Hey wait what are you doing?_

and flopping down in the grass beside him.

_Oh. That’s…that’s all right._

“I don’t believe you.”

“Like I said. They’re just theories.”

He stretches, crunches the last of his candy, and pulls up another handful of weeds.

It’ll rain again, tonight or tomorrow-there’s that heavy stillness in the air, oppressive and too hot. Even the bugs have gone quiet, and if he closes his eyes he can pretend there’s nothing around him at all.

Then a crow caws and he flinches, fingers bending the weed in half. Damn.

“Although…” Uh-oh. He’s growing to know that tone a little better, and so far it hasn’t boded well for him. He’s not sure she doesn’t have a death wish.

He’s going to shut this down now, before it gets them shot or worse.

“No.”

“I didn’t finish my sentence!”

“We are not going over there. This isn’t a book, there is potentially a man with a shotgun and a bad temper and I, for one, have no desire to be murdered.”

She blinks up at him, all innocence, and he _sees_ it coming.

“We could go over and see if she’s out there.”

“She’s not.”

“Not go digging, just go out there and see if we spot her.”

“We won’t.”

“Aw, c’mon, Jonathan.” He wishes there was a way to close his ears. “We’d stay in the road. Just watch and see, that’s all. Please?”

Dammit…this is what he gets…

“We heard somethin’ last time.” she continues, looking up at him like she isn’t suggesting potentially being shot or mauled. “We had fun, anyhow. ‘Member?” Yes, but…that was…this isn’t… “Please, Jonathan?” She sits up and leans against his side, lower lip between her teeth. “Pretty please?”

That’s it. He’s lost. ‘No’ has left his vocabulary and this is what he gets for getting himself into a relationship-friendship. That’s all he meant. Friendship is a relationship.

“You’ve gone all red.” What. “Are you looking down my shirt?”

“No! No, I-”

“So there’s not enough to look at, then, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes-no-I… _Kitty…_ ”

She laughs at him.

“I’m only teasing.” Not funny! “So come on, are you coming with me or not?”

He sighs.

“Fine. But there’s nothing to see.”

“That’s what you said last time.”


	5. Bad Influence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is Danny Farrant & Paul Rawson's cover of 'In the Pines'. HOWEVER, this story now has an 8tracks playlist. It's the same songs that have been featured, just corralled together. http://8tracks.com/scaryscarecrows/eyes-unable-to-dream

He borrows the lantern from the cellar. Can’t be too careful. Babbit bridge is not inhabited by potentially deadly locals, after all.

Kitty meets him in the road, flashlight in one hand.

“You came prepared.”

“I don’t want to get shot.”

“He’s probably sleeping. Besides, I’m staying in the road. If _you_ want to go over there…”

“I’m not the one insisting on this fool’s errand.”

“That’s what you called the last one, and look what happened.”

Logic will get him nowhere, and he looks up at the sky with a silent plea for _no questionable events_. The last thing he needs is for her to decide that yes, actually, jumping the fence is called for.

The lantern and the flashlight cast weird shadows in the weeds and he hopes the dog is sleeping inside. Who knows what it might do now, at night.

The crickets are noisy as all hell and every so often a cloud of gnats will puff up from the grass. For a while the only other sound is their footsteps in the dust, punctuated by the occasional hoot of an owl.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t wondered if this is some sort of set-up, not once, and after mulling it over he deems it unlikely. It’s…nice, not having to worry about that. Soothing.

A sickly-sweet smell hits him and he stops. What _is_ that? He takes a couple of hesitant steps forward and feels a _squish_ under his shoes.

Wicker’s mailbox looms up like a warning finger and beneath it, he catches sight of the lump of dog. It looks…it doesn’t look right and he’s having flashbacks to the Smiths’ hound dog, the one that went rabid.

“Stay here.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Either he sounds suitably unsettled or tonight’s his lucky night, because she actually does what he says. He looks down, trying to see what he stepped in, and sees…pink. Or red. He can’t really tell, the lantern light’s throwing the color off.

The dog doesn’t react when he inches closer and when he lifts the lantern up he sees why-half it’s head’s been blown off.

He's not going to be sick. He refuses. He is not going to be sick, he is going to turn right back around and drag Kitty home and take a very long shower.

“What’s wrong?”

“Stay there.” It hits him what the _squish_ was and he is not going to be sick, he’s _not_ going to be sick… “We have to go.”

"Jonathan?"

"Don't." Speaking raises the risk of puking and he swallows, closes his eyes and takes a step back. "Stay there."

It hits him what the squishy something is and he tries to scuff it off his shoe. All that does is make it brown.

He swallows down creeping bile and gives himself a mental shake. Time to go. It's time to go and try to forget all this-

"What's wrong-oh my god."

What's she doing up here?

"Kitty-"

"Oh my god." she whispers again, her hand balled up against her mouth. She takes a step forward, then another, until she's standing next to him and can see the whole mess. "Oh my god, what the fuck-"

He moves his arm, intending to turn her around and get moving, when she swings the flashlight across the field. Is she _insane_ , they'll be seen!

"What are you doing?"

"What if he's dead?"

"What if he did this?" he counters. "The dog could've been sick. Or Wicker's a damn lunatic, or who knows! Leave it alone."

"The light’s on. Something's wrong."

"That's not my problem! Stay out of it before you get yourself killed or worse!" She's not listening. Fine. He'll call her bluff. "I'm not going with you."

“What if he’s dead?” she asks again. “Or really hurt?”

“Don’t care.” he says at once. “Better him than us, come on.”

“We have to tell someone.”

“No, we don’t, let’s go.”

“I’m gonna go see.”

“What?” he hisses. Is she insane? “No. _No_. He’s probably fine, the dog was prob’ly sick or something, leave it alone.”

“I’m just going to check. If he’s dead, someone needs to know, what if it’s murder?”

“Then they’ll have no problem shooting you for being nosey, now come _on_.”

“What if it attacked him and he needs help?”

“He should be friendlier, then.”

For a minute he thinks he’s gotten through to her, but then she clicks off the flashlight and shoves it into his hand.

“Keep a lookout. Flash twice if you see anyone, I’ll be right back.”

“Kitty, Kitty, _wait-_ ”

But she clambers over the rickety fence and disappears into the weedy field. _Dammit!_ She’s going to get herself killed, he knows she is, and she’s _little_ , there won’t be much left of her…that’s assuming she doesn’t get herself kidnapped, a child could pick her up and walk away, Jesus Christ…

 _“Kitty!”_ he hisses. “Get back here before you get yourself killed!”

She turns and makes a **SHHHHH** motion before continuing towards the house. Fine. Fine! She can get herself shot and he won’t miss her. He’ll skip her funeral, just to spite her.

She’s up to the house now. This is it, the door’s gonna fly open and she’ll either be yanked inside or blasted to little pieces and it’s not like anyone’ll believe him if he tells them what happened-

Why is she on the porch. She has no reason to be on that porch, he’ll bet his life it creaks! Or worse, it’ll splinter and drop her twenty feet to her death (and yes, that’s unrealistic, but _still_ ).

It’s not splintering and the door’s not opening. Okay. She’s made it this far, maybe she’ll be all right-no, _no_ , don’t look in the damn window! The old bastard’s probably fine and if he’s not, well, Jonathan doesn’t care what happened to him. Serves him right.

If-when, he means when-she gets back here, he’s going to give her such an earful…

She’s off the porch now. Good. Good, now she can just come right back over here and maybe she’ll have learned somethin’ _what’s she doing?_

_Don’t go around the back of the house, what the fuck are you doing?_

His glasses have decided to fog up and he rubs at them with his sleeve. Now they’re streaky and pressed against his nose but too bad. They shouldn’t be so inconvenient, then.

Where is she?

He turns the lantern off and sets it down. No need to draw more attention than necessary.

_Kitty?_

The door flies open and before he can do anything, someone’s clattered out of the house and into the weeds. They stand still and Jonathan’s just got his thumb on the flashlight switch when they dash around the side of the house.

_No no no no-_

**KER-ACK!**

He drops the light and vaults over the fence, knowing full well she’s dead or going to be very soon, Jesus Christ why didn’t he stop her-

He nearly runs her over and it takes him a second to register that she’s not bleeding out or scattered on the ground.

“Kitty.” Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Her mother is not going to kill him and he did not learn a hard lesson about happiness today.

_She’s okay._

Though she did about give him a heart attack.

“What are you doing?”

What. What is _he_ doing? Did she not…

“Th-there was a gunshot.”

She points towards the woods.

“Over there.”

He’s very, very tempted to either hug her or pick her up and lug her back home. For her own safety, is all. And his own.

He keeps his hands at his sides and hopes he doesn’t sound as shaky as he thinks he does when he says, “Let’s just go.”

“There’s someone in the house.”

“I know, that’s who fired, now let’s go.”

 **Swish-crunch, swish-crunch** , comes the sound of footsteps through leaves and sticks and if they’re seen they’re going to end up buried out here.

For the sole reason that she makes up for short legs with a _long_ streak of stubbornness, he grabs her hand

_Feels like a bird_

and yanks her around the side of the house. They press up against the wood

_Splinters and dust and that feels like spider legs oh boy_

in silence. His hand’s still warm and it takes him a second to notice he hasn’t dropped hers.

“Jonathan-”

“Sh.” He lets go of her hand and inches towards the edge of the house. “Stay here.”

The heavy air seems to magnify his breathing and when he pokes his head around the corner, he expects a bullet between the eyes. It doesn’t come. Nothing comes, actually, not even a, ‘what you doin’ out here?’

There’s no one there. But he heard someone, he _did_. He knows that sound almost as well as his own breathing, because it’s the sound that means his release from that damn chapel.

Doesn’t matter what he heard, they’re gone now…

 **Creak-creak**.

Faint, but undeniable footsteps reach his ears. Someone’s in the house. They need to get out of here, _now._

He ducks back, finger to his lips, and motions for her to follow. They don’t say a word until they’re back on the road, and then his mouth decides to get a mind of its own.

“You scared the bajesus outta me! What are you tryin’ to do, gimme a heart attack?” He gestures between her and that damn house, semi-aware that his speech has decided to take a backslide into ‘Granny Would Not Approve’ territory. Too bad. “I told you once, I told you a hundred times, leave it alone! What’f that gun had been a misfire and you’d gotten hit anyway? Or someone caught you? Hm? Did’ya think’a that?”

Why is she looking at him at like that. He is annoyed-beyond annoyed, borderline prepared to wring her neck-and she’s looking at him like she’s about to laugh. Come on! Just for once, would she take him seriously-

“You thought I got shot?”

 _That’s_ what she takes from this?

He gesticulates, words happily leaving him to sputter and hiss like poor Louisa May.

“I…dammit… _Kitty!_ ”

“Shh.”

No! He will not be shh’d! She is going to get his point if it kills him!

“Tresspassin’ is a serious thing out here! Or, since you’re easy to pick up, you coulda been kidnapped, you think people would believe me if I said-”

“Jonathan.”

“Don’t ‘Jonathan’ me!”

“Then shut up.” she hisses. “Look.”

No! He does not want to look, he wants to lecture! The least she could do is pretend…to…

Someone’s standing on the porch. He can’t tell who it is at this distance, but it’s not Old Man Wicker-as they discover a minute later when they come sprinting for the road.

“Run!”

For once (for _once_ ), there’s no argument. They don’t stop running until they reach the main road.


	6. Garden of Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title vaguely borrowed from Pearl Jam’s ‘Garden’, which is criminally underrated.

He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t sleep because he’s still hearing that gunshot and seeing that dog only sometimes it’s not the dog, it’s Kitty (what’s left of her) and-

Yeah. There’s a reason he’s sitting on his bed, shivering in the cool night breeze and watching the clouds vie for coverage of the moon.

Granny took something for her aches and pains-some bitter concoction the doctor makes for her-that’ll keep her asleep tonight. He takes advantage of this to get dressed and go outside for a walk.

It’s heavy outside. The breeze is pushing the clouds around, but there’s a weight to it. Rain’s coming again, he can feel it in the air.

He takes a path more on muscle memory than any real intention, and ends up at the old cemetery. The gate hangs on rusty hinges, more for show than anything, and he lets himself in and heads to the back, to the Grey Lady.

The Grey Lady probably used to be The White Lady, but she’s been here longer’n anything else, since before the civil war. He likes her. She’s quiet. Friendly, almost, for a grave marker.

He settles cross-legged at the base of her skirts and leans his head against the cold stone. She’s lifelike, apart from the blank gaze-it’s always a little surprising those skirts aren’t soft.

The moon manages to make itself visible, at least for a moment, and the crosses and tombstones gleam under its weak light. A barn owl, silent as a ghost, makes a sudden dive. There’s a squeak, and then it rises with a gently-swaying tail dangling from its talons.

**Crunch, crunch.**

Footsteps?

**Crunch, crunch.**

Yep, footsteps. And whistling, which is surprisingly _creepy_ this late at night.

**Doo-doo-da-da-dee-dee-dee-doo-doo-dee…**

What is…wait. He knows that tune…what _is_ that…kookaburra. Weird.

**Crunch, crunch.**

He scrambles behind the Lady and waits. Probably just someone out for a late-night walk, or maybe a tramp passing through. They get those sometimes, but it’s awfully late…

He pokes his head around the Lady. The moon’s still out, illuminating the path with surprising clarity. And, more importantly, the walker.

He doesn’t know that silhouette, which is strange in and of itself. Maybe it’ll come to him…nope. He has no idea who that is.

Whoever it is opens the cemetery gate and _now_ he’s starting to get a little nervous. Late-night walkers he can understand, but he’s never seen anyone else here this late at night.

**Crunch, crunch.**

And no one ever comes this far back, _ever_.

The moon seems brighter than ever and he presses up against the Grey Lady, clinging to some childish fancy that she’ll protect him. Which is silly, there’s nothing to be protected from-

“I know you’re here.”

He catches his breath, pinching his lips shut to keep from making any sound. That voice is unfamiliar to him. It’s a genderless voice, not from around here.

“Come out. I want to talk to you about earlier.”

There’s nothing he can use for a weapon. He’s going to have to run for it and hope whoever this is doesn’t have a gun.

“About what you saw.”

He didn’t see anything.

“Don’t be frightened.”

He’s not.

He takes a deep breath and mentally gauges the distance between him and the gate, factor in clusters of tombstones to avoid, add in potential gun…

“Don’t run.”

Joke’s on them! Ask anyone-good luck catching Jonathan Crane if he’s really decided to ditch you. Call it a side effect of ‘I don’t want to be thrown in the pond again’, whatever.

He dashes out from behind the Lady, dodges a cross, and promptly flings himself behind a tombstone when a shot rings out.

**“Stop.”**

This isn’t the same thing as ‘get off my lawn’ or even ‘the book or you, Scarecrow?’ This isn’t even _close_. His heart’s going a million miles an hour and he doesn’t remember seeing anything with this much clarity-every little crack on the stones, every speck of dust, it’s all so vivid.

He doesn’t want to die. Not like this.

Like **hell** like this. He wants out of this goddamn town, and not in a pine box. He wants to get out and see the ocean and go to university and-

**Crunch, crunch.**

He’s going to have to risk it. It’s dark-the moon’s ducking back behind a cloud already.

He bolts for the gate, trying to keep low and not run in a straight line, and there’s another shot that whizzes too close for comfort.

The gate looms up, still partly open, and he squeezes through the gap and takes off down the road.

**Crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch!**

There’s another shot and he veers off-path, hoping they’re not familiar with the area. Okay…turn here, mind the tree root…

They’re _not_ familiar with the area-the crunching has slowed. He can’t see them anymore, but that’s all right, he can hear them trying to feel their way.

Why does this tree have to shed so many leaves? Doesn’t it realize that the noise it’s causing could get him killed?

He inches back towards the main road, freezing every half-step, until he feels plain dirt under his shoes at last.

**Crunch-cru-FUCK.**

A nervous grin flits across his face. They’ve found the tree root, sounds like.

He backs away until he’s pretty sure they haven’t seen him, then turns around and runs for home.

* * *

Kitty’s not at school.

He doesn’t notice until second period, because they don't share a first and he presumed she was running late. But no, she’s not here and there’s a sinking feeling that says _something’s wrong._

Nothing’s wrong. That’s ridiculous. She’s probably sick or something, that’s all. This has nothing to do with…whatever they’ve stumbled into. Nothing.

So he collects her homework assignments and pretends he’s not relieved when she answers the door that afternoon.

“Hey.” He’s never seen her this pale, or in pajamas, and it’s weird. “You can come in.”

He shakes his head.

“I-I brought your homework.”

She grimaces but takes the folder.

“Thanks.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Stomach flu.” She lowers her voice. “I needed a day, but Mum thinks it’s a bug. Y’know.”

“Did you tell her what happened?”

“She’d never let me out again!” That would be ideal. “M’fine. Just…this never happened at home.”

“Don’t…just…be careful.” Mrs. Richardson’s not around, is she? He doesn’t hear her… “I ran into someone last night, I don’t know what they were doing, but they, ah…they thought I’d seen more than I did. I guess. I don’t know.”

“What are you on about?”

“They shot at me and chased me down the road. I’m fine.”

She hugs him and oh god what does he do? Hug back? Stand still? Pat her head?

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know-”

Yeah, well, too late now.

He hugs her back, stiffly, and wonders if she’s going to let go. She doesn’t seem so inclined.

“Kitty?”

“Sorry.” She steps back. “I didn’t…there wasn’t much to see.”

“They thought otherwise. So just…just be careful.”

“What’s going on?”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. Anyway. Um. There’s a test on Friday in math, just so’s you know.”

“Ugh.”

“It’ll be fine. Math is easy.”

“Maths is a fucking nightmare!”

“Watch your mouth!” Mrs. Richardson warns and Jonathan jumps. How much has she heard? When did she get here? “Hello, Jonathan.”

“Hello, Ma’am.” She frowns. What? It’s been _ingrained_ , he can’t just turn it off! “I was just dropping off Kitty’s homework.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks a lot.” Kitty grumbles. “I’m dying and you bring me _work_.”

“Go back to bed, sickie.”

“Mu-um…”

“Don’t you take that tone.”

She pulls a face.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Feel better?”

“Can I get you anything, dear?”

“No, I need to be getting home. Good-bye, Ma’am.”

“Mary!”

He tries a smile and turns around before she can try to make him say it.

* * *

He’s not nosey. That trait is reserved for his less enlightened neighbors. He is, however, annoyed that someone felt the need to shoot at him. He takes offence to that sort of thing. That’s a reasonable feeling, in his opinion.

So it’s for that reason alone that he’s sitting at his desk with a piece of paper and a pencil, drawing up a list of everyone in town.

He knows the person last night wasn’t a local, but there’s something about that property they’re interested in. A little _too_ interested in-shooting at trespassers, okay. Hell, he can see some asshole losing their temper with the dog, even. (Griggs once chased a stray cat with a razor blade, boasting that he was gonna skin it alive. Jonathan has no idea how a black widow found its way into his backpack. None at all.)

But tracking him down? That’s weird. If he’s going to be shot at, there’d better be a good reason. Or at least a reason he can understand.

He jots down Wicker’s name, pauses, and makes a note that Wicker’s probably dead. Or at the very least incapacitated. He certainly wasn’t the one chasing him last night. He doesn’t love his property that much.

Who else…that’s everyone.

Why did he bother? He made a list. Wow. So productive. He already knows it wasn’t anyone from town, what good does this do?

He scrunches the paper up and slumps down in his chair. This is pointless. This is pointless and he’s just going to give up and when he sees Kitty tomorrow, he’s going to tell her to do the same. Hell, she’s probably going to drop it without his input. She was _rattled_ this afternoon.

It’s bugging him, though. Nobody cares about Wicker-for all he knows, the guy’s been dead for months. So why the paranoia? What’s out there to find?

He frowns, un-scrunches his paper, and flips it over. The house had looked how he imagined it always had-bed, table, trunk. Nothing of value. If someone killed the old man for money, they probably weren’t getting much.

He sketches out a little diagram anyway, trying to remember if he saw anything else. Kitty might’ve-she’d said there was someone inside, had gotten a look through the window.

Hmm.

There’s a low rumble outside and he glances up. The sky’s black-rain. Rain is here. He’s not going out tonight, that’s for sure.

Well…maybe those rumors about gold are true. Why the place looks as bad as it does remains a mystery, but that might explain…

Forget it. He doesn’t want to know.


	7. A Matter of Survival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The United States got Australia’s possum by mistake. Seriously, they’re scary and have a shit-ton of teeth and they always look rabid.
> 
> Chapter song is Gaslight Anthem's cover of 'God's Gonna Cut You Down'.

It’s not his fault he’s out here. It’s _not_ -Granny sent him to get something out of the cellar. If he’s going to be honest with himself, he’s half-expecting her to shove a broom handle in the door and leave him to starve. She’s been…nice…lately. For her. Which mostly means that she’s ignored his existence, but it’s a reasonable assumption that she’s ensuring she won’t feel much guilt when she kills him.

So he’s a little more alert than he might be otherwise, and that’s probably why he spots the figure loitering in the road. It’s not like they’re hiding, but they get a lot of traveling salesmen out this way-it’s not that unusual to see someone debating on whether or not to knock. There used to be a sign, but it’s long gone and Granny never had him make a new one, so…

Normally he’d go down and tell them not to bother. But not tonight. He doesn’t want Granny’s newfound good mood to vanish because he took too long getting what she wanted. So he clatters down into the cellar, hoping he doesn’t accidentally put his hand down on something that bites, and hunts around for the peaches. Where the hell did she put those things…there!

The jar is cold in his fingers and he presses his palm against it. Ahh, so nice and cold…

He locks the cellar doors behind him and glances towards the road. Salesman’s still there. Whatever.

**HISS!**

It’s only because the jar is sticking to his hand that he doesn’t drop it when he scrambles backwards. A possum is lurking against the house. Fucking thing, he lives here, he’s not even that close to it!

He takes several large steps away from it, just to be safe. He could have done without that, thanks. They’re awful.

But at least he’s never had to eat one.

He heads up the stairs and looks at the road again. Well? Are they gonna pluck up the courage or not? Jonathan almost hopes the do, because Granny will probably answer and the ensuing screeching will be both frightening and hilarious.

“Boy!” But that’s just frightening. “What are you doing out there?”

Time to go.

He ducks inside and locks the door.

“Sorry, Granny.”

“I sent you out there for peaches, how long does that take?” She snatches the jar from his hand. “What were you doing?”

“There’s someone in the road.”

“I don’t care!” Then she stops and eyes him and this is going to have to be handled with _extreme_ care. “Were you talking to that girl?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me, child.”

“I wasn’t!” He points at the door. “They’re probably still there! It’s just a salesman or something!”

“Then why the wait?”

“I wasn’t sure if they’d come up or not.” He swallows hard and wonders if he can get the door unlocked or not. He’ll take his chances with the possum, thanks. “But they didn’t, so…”

She studies him and he squirms, unable to discard the childish fancy that she can read his mind. She can’t, he knows she can’t, but when she looks at him like that…

She limps past him and peers through the frosted glass on the door.

“Hm.” she says at last. Is that a good _hm_ or a bad _hm_? “Go put these on the counter.”

She thrusts the peaches back at him and he takes the jar, half-expecting her to grab him and wrestle him out the door, out _There_.

She doesn’t and he retreats to the kitchen, prods the stew for good measure.

What’s she doing? It’s not that he’d care if _she_ got herself murdered (he should be so lucky), but anything capable of murdering Granny is also capable of murdering him and that’s not so appealing.

He pokes his head back into the hall in time to see her open the door and march outside. Oh, boy. This isn’t going to be pretty.

“Get out of here!”

She waves her stick and he hopes, for a minute, that she’ll fall or worse. He could lock the door still, barricade himself in until morning. Hell, they might even have somebody’s rifle (from, as Granny puts it, ‘the war of Northern Aggression’)-how hard can it be to work it? Idiots have rifles. Bo Griggs has one, for crying out loud!

Unfortunately, nothing happens to her. She gains speed once she gets down the stairs and her shouting rouses the birds. They don’t come spiraling down in that horrid whirlwind of feathers, but they _do_ start up a nasty racket. He hugs himself and watches in fascinated horror as she stalks towards the road.

“We want nothing!” she screeches, barely audible over the cawing of the crows. “Now get out of here! Go on!”

He has to be honest-if he were the superstitious type, she’d look like a witch. Hell, she looks like one anyway, but she has to look worse if you believe in that sort of thing. The birds aren’t helping

**CAWCAWCAWCAWCAW**

and he’s tempted to go hide in his room. Not like it’ll help, but at least there’d be some distance between him and **Them.**

The unfortunate salesman lingers for another minute before turning and walking swiftly down the road. Granny stops-getting her bearings, probably-before turning and coming back towards the house.

He retreats to the kitchen, stirs the stew a bit, and tries not to flinch when the door slams.

“Granny?”

“Never you mind.” **Thump-swish, thump-swish.** “Go wash your hands.”

He ducks out the other door before she can enter the kitchen and takes the back stairs up. Well. That was an interesting evening.

* * *

He’s woken by a violent battle between a possum and an owl. The owl is victorious, in the end, and he catches a glimpse of it flying off with the ugly thing clenched firmly in its talons. Well. If he’s going to be selfish, at least he won’t go into the cellar and get his face bitten off or something.

Beings startled out of a sound sleep has all but ensured he won’t be getting back to it anytime soon and he leans against the window, hoping to leech some of the cold from the glass. The glass isn’t that cold and he ends up feeling it grow slicker under his skin. Neat.

_Hey, what’s that?_

Someone’s in the yard. Not the road, the _yard_ -right up by that old scarecrow. Brave soul, comin’ up here after nightfall.

Or maybe they’re lookin’ to rob the place. Joke’s on them, there’s no money to be had! Hell, if he thought there was, he’d laugh and search with them.

Well. Maybe. Granny might not like that too much.

They nose around a little bit-what are they doing, looking for a way in?-before turning and shuffling across the weedy no-man’s land towards Kitty’s house.

Okay, maybe they’re not a burglar after all.

He watches them until they’re swallowed in the dark before lying back down, but every little noise has him sitting up in bed.

* * *

Jonathan has solved the riddle of Why Kitty Has to _Touch_ Him. Clearly, she does it to disturb his thought process and make it harder to lie convincingly.

Like now. She’s settled up against his back with her head resting between his shoulders, saying, “Someone tried to break in last night.”

He should know nothing about this. It should be a great shock and he should take it as an opening to say, ‘this is why we’re never going to speak of this again’.

What actually comes out of his mouth is, “I think I saw them.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I think they were in the road earlier. Granny saw them off.”

She shivers, bones moving against his.

“Mum won’t go to the police, because when Ada went out there was no one, but the knob was rattling. We all heard it.”

He wonders if there’d been attempted entry downstairs. His hearing’s good, but not that good.

“You’re sure it wasn’t the wind?”

“Wind doesn’t rattle doorknobs. Doesn’t run away when your father opens the door, either.”

Fair.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before she says, “What now?”

The safe answer is, of course, ‘never speak of it again and be very careful for a bit’. The true answer is, “I don’t know.”

She moves-feels like she’s pulled her knees up to her chest-and her head leaves his spine.

“You got _shot at_.”

“I did.”

“You could have been _killed_.”

Wouldn’t be the first time, he thinks, watching a black dot glide across the sky. Probably won’t be the last time, either.

“Yes.”

“How are you so calm?”

“Trying not to think about it, mostly.”

Also, he’s warm and comfortable and it’s that sort of thing that lulls him into a false sense of security. It’s hardly his fault-the sun is shining, the bids are singing (god, they’re annoying), there’s _butterflies_ …

The only reason he’s not half-asleep (apart from the touching) is the idea that whoever it is-relative, lucky hobo, who knows-will just keep trying. Granny’s not going to go out there every time. Eventually she’ll make him go. Or they’ll run into someone on the way home from school. Or something.

“D’you think they’ll try again?”

_No. Say no. SAY NO._

“Maybe.”

She moves again, this time so her side’s against his back and he has no idea how that can be at all comfortable for either of them.

Hopefully she’ll stay there.

“I don’t want you to die.”

“I’m not gonna die.” Obviously. “They were probably just trying to scare me. You too. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

He sounds unconvincing even to himself. She makes a small noise and before he can protest, she’s wound her arms around his stomach.

Um. Well. He…wasn’t expecting that.

“Kitty?”

“Mm.”

“What are you doing?”

“It’s a hug.”

It’s a very long hug. Not like he…minds…or anything, it’s just confusing.

“Okay.”

Um. Is she…going to let go? What’s he supposed to do?

She does not appear to be letting go any time soon and he sighs, tries to relax, and takes up plucking the leaves off a weed.

“What’s in there? What did you see?”

“Nothing. You? You saw more than I did.”

“Just the back.” she says, voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t see their face. And they had a hat on, they could’ve been anyone.”

“No jewelry, anything?”

“Uh-uh.” Silence. “It could’ve been my mum, for all I know.”

He can’t quite envision Mrs. Richardson chasing after anyone with a shotgun. A butcher knife, maybe, but not a shotgun.

Kitty sighs and one hand pats his ribs.

“Your shirt’s soft.”

“It’s old, that’s why.”

“Mm.”

They sit quietly for a while-Jonathan, for his part, is wondering if he should move or not-and eventually Kitty stirs.

“They were lookin’ for something.” she says. “Openin’ drawers and boxes.”

“Huh.”

“Any idea what would be in there?”

“Money, maybe. Nothing good.”

She hums. This is not a hug, he decides. This is…this is…he’s actually not…sure. But it’s not a hug. Hugs don’t last this long. He’s by no means a Hug Expert, but surely they don’t last this long.

“Maybe if we both went to the police-”

No.

“Kitty. We have two police in this town, one sheriff and one deputy, and they spend all day taking potshots at birds.”

“Are you serious?”

“We’re pretty sheltered. Crime’s not much of a thing.”

“But the dog-”

“Let me rephrase: we take care of our own problems. The police are there to take Jed Bloom’s whiskey away when he starts screaming in church.”

She releases him and flops down in the grass.

“At least tell me there’s no chainsaw-wielding cannibals nearby.”*

“What?” Where’d she get _that_ idea? “Why would there…never mind.”

“So what d’we do, then?”

“Leave it alone.”

“He shot at you! And tried to break into my house!”

“What’s your brilliant plan, then?”

Oh, no. No. He didn’t mean to say that. It was an accident, he takes it back!

“Evidence.”

He’s not going to like this, is he.

 

*Kitty is referencing _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre._ She tried to use it as a last-ditch effort not to move (‘MUM! There’s cannibal murderers, I’ll be worn as a dress!’). Bit her in the ass: her parents told her not to wander around after dark, then, and she spent a week having nightmares.


	8. Storm's Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subtitled, ‘our heroes learn valuable lessons about being Meddling Kids, and the author pulls a dick move because this chapter grew too long’.  
> Song is Dorothy’s ‘Medicine Man’.

He doesn’t like it.

Kitty’s brilliant, evidence-gathering plan is to go out there, break into the shack, and dig around for something that proves that Wicker is dead or otherwise not okay.

It is a terrible plan, but he can’t come up with anything better and letting her go alone means that she’ll probably get herself caught and killed. Or worse.

He agrees anyway, because getting out one last ‘I told you so’ is better than her heading out there alone and just vanishing. Stupid? Maybe. Potentially suicidal? From a certain point of view. Does he have a choice? Not much of one.

Besides, it’s threatening rain-wind’s gettin’ ugly-so the odds of them actually being able to _do_ anything are pretty small. Thankfully.

Unfortunately, the wind has the side effect of making Granny an uneasy sleeper, and his trip downstairs is one fraught with paranoia and _was that a mouse or a footstep_ and a fair bit of _if I look up will she be there?_

She doesn’t come, and he’ll grant that she could just wait for him to come back (or lock him out to be struck by lightning), but for the moment, at least, he’s safe. Almost, anyway, if the humidity hadn’t swollen the damn door, come _on_ -

It pops free and he stills, expecting any second to hear the angry **swish-thump-swish-thump** of his approaching demise, but the house is still. He slips out, carefully dodging the creaky board in front of the door, and wrestles it shut. There’s another nerve-wracking moment after it pops back into place where he waits, a lie about ‘saw someone in the fields’ on his lips, but she doesn’t come.

He skips the steps-safer than risking more noise-and, with one last glance upwards,

_If she’s at the window, I’ll just not come home._

he deems himself out of danger. For this bit, anyways. Getting back in is always riskier, because she could have moved in his absence and he wouldn’t know about it.

Kitty’s waiting for him in the road with her backpack, though a closer look says the backpack is empty.

“What’s that for?”

“Evidence.”

“We are not robbing his house-”

“I never said anything about robbery.” She gives him a shaky smile. “Honestly, Jonathan, you can’t yell at me for getting into trouble if your mind goes straight to _robbery._ ”

That…he didn’t…she said…

Humph.

He closes his mouth after that and gestures to the road.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Do you have a better one?” He shakes his head. “You don’t have to come.”

Yes he does. She’ll get herself killed without him, he can tell.

“Let’s go.” he mumbles. “It’s gonna rain soon.”

She clicks on the flashlight and a small flurry of moths appears out of nowhere, their fluttering throwing strange shapes into the light in the dust.

Their footsteps seem loud in the silence and he strains to hear a third pair, but maybe he wouldn’t hear them, not with this racket.

He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this and he should have kept his mouth shut rather than spreading local wisdom. This is what he gets for friendship. Lesson learned, all right, go ahead and stick it on his tombstone. If he even gets one.

They reach the Wicker place without incident. The dog’s gone, and he’s glad of that, even if it’s clear they just dragged it away-the dirt’s all disturbed and there’s a dark trail that tapers off just outside of the flashlight’s beam.

Brr.

The house itself looks empty. No lights, no strangers with guns, no nothing. Maybe they’ve moved on, got what they came for and figured if nothin’s been said by now, everything’s gonna be fine.

He should be so lucky.

Kitty clicks the flashlight off and on one hand, good less attention, but on the other hand, bad, they could miss things. Like strangers with shotguns.

“Well?”

She leans over the fence and his fingers itch to yank her back.

“I don’t think anyone’s home.”

No, so they should be grateful and leave now. If Old Man Wicker wanted to be found before judgement day, he should’ve been less of an asshole. Someone’ll turn up eventually. Tax collector or somethin’.

“Nope.”

“That’s good. We’ll try the door first and go from there.”

“Kitty-”

“Shh.”

A thought occurs to him and he looks down at her.

“Have you done this before?”

“It was a church, and it was for something else.”

“You broke into a _church?_ ”

“Shh.” She pats his arm. “It was raining, that’s all.”

“But-”

“Quiet.”

He closes his mouth and wonders what _else_ she’s done. She jumps the fence and he swallows down a fit of cursing and goes after her. He’s never making friends again if this is what happens, Geeze Louise…

Nobody appears in front of them (of course they don’t, life isn’t that dramatic) and they make it to the porch without incident.

The door’s locked. Good. Proof that this is all over and maybe someday someone’ll come out here and find a skeleton, but it doesn’t have to be _them_.

“Dammit.”

He can’t find it in himself to be disappointed.

“Let’s just go. They’re gone. Obviously.”

She ignores him-of course she does-and steps back. Then she goes around the side of the house. What’s she doing? They need to leave!

“Kitty!”

“Shh. Over here.”

He doesn’t want to go over there. He wants to go home. Well, off this property, anyway, home’s not that much better.

He goes over there anyway and finds her pointing up to the attic window. It’s a fold-in window-they’ve got one, too-and it hits him what she’s got in mind.

“No.”

“Yes.”

There is hope to get out of this, and he latches onto it.

“Kitty. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but…well…” He gestures between them. “You’re awfully little. You can’t get up there. _I_ can’t get up there.” That’s probably a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that. “No.”

“I can get up there.” She gives him that stubborn look, the one that he’s not sure how to feel about. “Watch me.”

Yeah. Sure. There is an end in sight to this, thank God-she’ll give up eventually, when she realizes there’s no handholds.

He’s not expecting her to grab him and walk him over so he’s standing up against the house.

“What are you doing.”

“Getting up there.”

“Kitty?”

“Stand there and don’t move.”

“Kitty, what are you doing?”

She steps back, looks from him to the window, and before he can ready himself she’s scaled him like a damn tree, stood on his shoulders, and given the window a little push. There’s a _creak_ , a sudden pressure, and then she’s…

Did she get in there?

He tilts his head back, expecting her to be clinging to the sill or something, and finds that no, she’s managed to squirm in there. A startled laugh escapes his throat and you know, he’s a little impressed.

“Kitty?”

“Hang on, I’m gonna find a way downstairs.”

“Get out of there, are you insane?”

She doesn’t answer. He makes an angry gesture anyway, because it’ll attract less attention than shouting at her to _get out of there right now, Jesus Christ, does she have a death wish?_ and heads back around to the front porch. Sure enough, the door opens a minute later.

“Told you I’d get up there.”

She’s got splinters and a dust bunny in her hair, but he’ll give it to her-she did. Now that her point’s been proved (on his life, he’ll never underestimate her again), can they go? There’s no reason to be here. Obviously.

“Are you coming in or not?”

No!

…

Yes.

He steps in, flashlight sweeping the floor. It’s just as run-down inside as it is outside, but the dust’s all stirred up and there’s a large brown stain by the bed that he suspects might be blood. The attic ladder is hanging down from where Kitty came in, just next to the trunk.

“Now what?”

She shrugs and drops down to look under the bed.

“Look for bloodstains.”

He thinks he’ll look for potential murderers instead. Much more productive.

Does she have to make so much noise? This is how you attract serial killers and bears! Hell, this whole escapade is how you attract serial killers and bears. If they survive, they’re going to have a long talk about ‘self-preservation’ and ‘leaving people to die’.

“Shine that light over here, the trunk’s locked.”

As trunks usually are.

All the same, he shines the light towards her voice and glances out into the weeds. Nothing. That’s good, that’s best-what’s she doing?

“Dammit, this might be why people use hairpins…don’t suppose you’ve got one?”

“Think about what you asked.”

“You’re always prepared!”

“I don’t make a habit of picking locks!”

“Ugh…okay, maybe there’s something-”

**Crunch, crunch.**

“Forget the trunk.” he hisses. “We need to-”

**Crunch, crunch.**

Okay, they’re a _lot_ closer than he thought and he doubts they’ll be able to use the front door.

He shuts it, locks it, and nearly has a heart attack when Kitty grabs his arm.

“Attic.” she breathes. “Come on.”

He lets her pull him up the ladder. It’s cramped up here, more of a glorified crawlspace than anything, but it’s also mostly empty. He drags the ladder up and hopes nothing’s out of the ordinary.

“Window?”

“Getting down is always harder.”

Great.

The door opens and he holds his breath, convinced that any second now the ladder’ll be pulled down or bullets will start coming through the floor. He’s not sure which sounds like the more unpleasant way to go.

A sliver of light rises up a little ways in front of him and he bites his lip, eases himself onto his stomach. His glasses try to slide off his nose and after a brief but furious battle with them, he gets them to stay _put_ and not be foggy (well, mostly) and generally permit him to peer through the crack in the floorboards.

It’s not a bad view, actually-the size of the shack makes it easy to see most of it-including the person inside.

They’re not familiar to him-it’s a man, as far as he can tell, tall, tanned, shaven head. He can’t see his face, not at first, but then he turns.

Jonathan will admit, to himself, that he’d been entertaining images of horrible scarring or some other, blatant sign of stranger-that-shoots-at-people-in-graveyards. Silly? Maybe. But books always make it clear who the nut is.

This man is…normal. Apart from the shaved head, he couldn’t be more average if he _tried_. It’s almost annoying.

Annoying or not, any possibility of this being someone else goes out the window when the whistling starts. It’s the same song it was before and for a second Jonathan’s convinced he knows they’re up here.

He doesn’t seem to, though-he picks up a shovel and heads back outside, leaving the door open.

So, really, his momentary _JESUS CHRIST_ when Kitty taps him is a little silly.

“Well?”

He shrugs and sits up, trying not to make too much noise.

“I don’t know him.”

He comes back inside and they freeze, plastered together. It’s worse, not being able to see him-what if he’s reaching for the ladder? Or just waiting for them to move again?

Nothing happens and after a minute he goes back out. The sounds of digging reach his ears and he relaxes. A bit.

Okay. That window isn’t _that_ wide, but he’s gotten through some pretty small spaces before. He can probably get down (it’s not that high if you’re not, you know, miniscule).

“I think I can get down.” he breathes. “It’s not that high. If we’re careful, there’s a back way through the woods.”

“Okay.”

“Hold my glasses.”

The digging doesn’t seem to be stopping and he stands up, sort of, and works his way through the window. It’s a little tighter than he thought it would be, but dammit, if he can be wedged into a locker (by his choice or not), he can fit through here.

He’s right. It’s a nerve-wracking few seconds, but eventually he’s on the ground and a little scratched up but otherwise unharmed. The digging doesn’t stop and he takes a shuddery breath.

Kitty drops into his arms a second later and he sets her down. She gives him his glasses without a word and points towards the woods. He nods, takes a few hesitant steps forward, and deems it safe to make a run for it.

The woods loom up like splintery teeth and he shoves the irrational idea (rooted in Grimm’s Fairy Tales, no doubt) that they won’t make it out in one piece. They’ll be fine. They’ll be fine, they’ll weave their way around and back to the main road and they’ll be _fine_.

At least, that’s the plan. They’re barely in the trees when Kitty pulls on his sleeve.

_“What?”_

“Look.”

The man has discarded his shovel and gone around to the woodpile on the side of the house. If he looks up he’ll see them, they need to leave, who _cares_ what he’s doing?

Kitty’s not moving, though, because clearly she either has a death wish or they’re in cahoots and she’s trying to get _him_ murdered. He risks tugging on her sleeve, but she doesn’t move.

“Kitty…”

“Shh.”

“But-”

“Wait.”

He doesn’t care, he really doesn’t-actually he takes that back is that a _leg?_

Yup. That’s a leg.

“I told you so.”

He doesn’t like having that line turned on him, he decides.

“You did.”

The man comes back and they freeze, but he’s only getting another limb out of the woodpile. This is horrible and gruesome and _that is a terrible place to stash a corpse, that’s how you draw vermin._

“Stay here.”

“What are you doing?” she hisses. “We need to get the police! Or my mother. An _adult._ ”

“Shh.” An arm this time. How many pieces is Wicker _in?_ “I just want to see where he’s putting them, that’s all.”

“Don’t be an idiot-”

Pot, kettle, in case she’s forgotten why they’re here in the first place. Besides, he’s not going to get close, he’s just going to move and see whereabouts the grave is. Everything is going to be fine.

“Just stay here, I’ll be right back.”

“Jonathan-”

He pretends not to hear her and, sticking close to the trees, inches down until he can see a light.

There’s a hole, real shallow, looks like, up by the front of the house. Huh. Hopefully he’s got a slab or something, because if it’s as shallow as it looks, a thumb’ll be sticking up by next month. Idiot.

The man kneels down and paws around in the hole a bit before going inside. He doesn’t come back out and Jonathan glances at the woodpile. There’s not much better evidence than a body part, and it’s not like he cares about Wicker himself, but…

Dismemberment’s pretty awful. And if he’s going to be honest with himself, walking into the Sheriff’s station and plopping a severed head (or whatever he pulls outta there) on the desk is…he’d probably get some grudging respect, at least. A little.

And he feels bad about the dog. S’just an animal, it didn’t deserve to die.

The man hasn’t come back yet. If he’s quick, he might be able to make it.

“Jonathan.” Kitty hisses. “Get back here.”

He takes a shuddering breath to steady his nerves, takes a last glance at the porch, and darts across the field. He skids to a stop by the woodpile and presses up against the house, waiting for any sign of being caught. Nothing. The man’s still in there-he can hear him walking around. Okay. Okay, he can do this, just like when he was little and used to play with the Nativity set-lift carefully and try to put everything back where it started.

The logs are disturbed as it is, so it’s not too hard to lift a few more off the top. They’ve been stacked up a little haphazardly, forming a hollow shell, and he peers inside.

Nothing. Bugs, that’s all. Everything must be in the hole already, damn…

The man stops walking and Jonathan drops down, his breath catching in his throat. He’s made a huge mistake. He did not think this through, not at all, oh boy-

But he’s not running around the side of the house, either. Okay. He’s just gonna see if it’s safe to run back and get of here, screw Wicker and his dog, they’re not worth this.

Kitty makes an angry gesture. Well, the man’s probably still inside, then, if she can gesture at him.

**SHUNK-SHUNK-SHUNK!**

He looks up at the sound of the window opening-straight into the barrel of a shotgun.


	9. Lose Your Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, granted, I think the real moment that they truly ‘lost their souls’ so to speak was Granny’s murder-Jonathan for, y’know, murder and Kitty for keeping her mouth shut about the whole bloody affair. But this left a mark all the same.

“Don’t. Move.”

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe he can’t breathe god please not like this-

“The fuck you doing!”

The gun swivels towards the woods, only for a second, but he takes advantage to sprint around the side of the house, out of range. If he can double back to the road…but Kitty doesn’t know the way back…

Where is she?

The door flies open and he darts to the other side

_Can’t help her if you’re dead, idiot!_

and peers around the corner. The man’s halfway between the house and the woods, head tilted like he’s trying to smell the air. Jonathan pauses, weighing his chances on reaching the main road without being shot,

_Not good too much open ground where the hell is she?_

and lunges up the porch and into the house. The slam of the door gets the man’s attention, but this old place has a sturdy bar in addition to the lock. Okay, okay, window, attic ladder…

Now what?

He sinks to the floor under the window and takes deep breaths. Okay. Okay, there’s no shouting or screaming or gunfire, so Kitty’s probably fine. She may not know where she’s going, but neither does the gunman, more than likely.

Okay. Okay, new plan. Find Kitty (she can’t have gotten that far), and leave and never, ever, ever speak of this again. Maybe not even go home. He’s never hotwired a car, but how hard can it really be, idiots do it all the time-

Okay.

He takes three deep breaths and forces himself to stand up and look outside. Nothing. That’s good, he reminds himself, that means he can leave the house and that Kitty’s (probably) not dead.

He pushes the door open, wincing at the creak, and pokes his head out. Nothing. It’s gotten eerily quiet, save for the wind. Well, he’ll probably hear if anyone tries to sneak up on him. Hopefully.

_Kitty?_

Nothing. He makes his way off the porch, freezing at every small sound. Where the hell is she?

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Okay. Woods. If Kitty’s got any sense, she’ll have stuck close to the edge rather than risk getting lost. (Though, they are here to begin with, so…)

He’ll go with that, because it’s a place to start.

Now, in the dark, he takes back every uncharitable, ‘those aren’t _real_ woods’ thought he’s ever had and replaces them with _new_ uncharitable, ‘great, woods’ thoughts. There’s more trees than he realized and up close, they’re nowhere near as spindly as they look from the road. He hates nature, he decides, and if he survives this and Granny doesn’t kill him before he’s eighteen, he’s going somewhere with no nature whatsoever. ‘Cept maybe a park, because those are unavoidable, now where is she she can’t be dead there was no gunshot-

He’s maybe ten feet in-the house is just visible, anyway-when a clump of leaves falls on his head. He looks up, expecting a bird, and is mistaken.

“Kitty?” She holds a finger to her lips and he lowers his voice. “Where’d he go?”

She points and gestures frantically for him to come up. He’s about to argue-maybe they can make it if they run-when the whistling reaches his ears and you know, never mind, no they can’t.

He feels horribly exposed up here-these trees are sparse-but it’s dark and it’s not like they’re at eye level or anything.

Kitty’s fine-a little scratched up, probably from getting up here in the first place-but she’s pale and, as he finds out when she reaches over to grab his arm, shaking like a leaf.

“You’re okay.” she breathes. “I wasn’t sure if he’d caught you-”

The whistling moves a little closer and she shuts up, fingers gripping his sleeve. It stops abruptly, but Jonathan has no idea if they’ve been spotted or not.

“I know you’re around here _some_ where.” a voice sing-songs from…somewhere over there. Too close, that’s all he knows. “Come on out, we need to have a talk.” There’s a flash of lightning and they both try to melt into the tree trunk. “Just a talk, that’s all. Don’t be frightened, I won’t hurt you.”

_Maybe death hurts, you don’t know._

**Crunch, crunch.**

He can’t see down there any more than the man (presumably) can see up here, but the footsteps sound close. This is worse than anything Granny’s ever done, worse by far-

The man steps into view, head shiny as Granny’s prized silver. Kitty’s fingers tighten to a near-painful degree.

_Don’t look up, don’t look up…_

One of them is born cursed. The man stops, looks from side to side, and then looks up.

“Hi.”

Everything goes numb and clear and loud and no no he’s imagining this he always did have a vivid imagination-

“Come down here, please.”

He’s going to be sick maybe that’d get him to go away nobody wants to be puked on do they-

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

Going down there has a slightly higher chance of Not Dying but he doesn’t want to _he doesn’t want to-_

_Breathe. Don’t lose your head, that’s how you die._

He takes a steadying breath and makes his way back down, Kitty right behind him. He has no ideas, none whatsoever apart from no sudden movements.

“Come on. Run, and I’ll shoot you.”

Yeah. He gathered. Nice to have confirmation.

He’s expecting them to be marched deeper into the woods, but instead they go back to the house. Makes sense, he supposes. Grave’s already there, just widen it a little.

“Inside. Don’t do anything silly.”

The door shuts behind them like a coffin lid closing and the walls seem to close in around them. The man glances at the trunk, raises an eyebrow, and says, “Sit down.”

When neither of them move-for his part, the words just haven’t registered-he shoots a bullet into the floor and shouts, “Now!”

Words registered. Sitting down now.

Once they’re down, the man props the shotgun against the wall and sits down on the bed, looking from one to the other.

“Nosey little shits, huh?”

“Small town.” Jonathan shoots back, regrets it immediately. Fortunately, the man just thinks that’s funny. Or pretends to.

“Yeah, y’know, I was a nosey kid, too. ‘Til I walked in on my parents.” He’d been happy without that knowledge, thanks. “You got any smart remarks, honey?”

_For once in your life, SAY NO._

Kitty swallows and forces a paper-thin smile.

“No.”

“Smart girl.”

_Not exactly._

“We didn’t see anything.” she continues, and it’s an effort to look like he agrees with this. “We just came out here for, um…y’know…” She shrugs. “My parents are home and his parents are home and-”

“Why were you up by the house, then?”

“It’s supposedly haunted.” Jonathan mumbles. “She dared me to come up and touch it, that’s all.”

The man sighs.

“You two are awful liars.”

“It’s the truth!”

“Mm-hm, and my name’s Plenty o’Toole.” Huh? “You were nosing around before.”

“Told you. It’s haunted. We were ghost-hunting.”

“Your bad luck, guys.” He leans forward. “Now. You’re from around here, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You know Wicker?”

“No.”

“Bullshit. You small towns always know everybody.” Damn near, but not this time! “So where’s his money?”

“What?”

“The money, kiddo.” _Don’t call me kiddo._ “Wicker’s buried gold, where is it?”

Seriously? They’re in this predicament because of imaginary gold? He is going to be murdered and left for the crows because of _imaginary gold_?

“There isn’t any, look at this place!” Kitty’s fingers, icy cold, grip his. “S’just a story, that’s all! If you were dumb enough to believe it-”

“Shut up!” He silences. The man leans over and picks up the gun. “Look. This sucks for you, I get it. Should’ve thought about that before you got nosey.”

He’s got a half-formed idea of _DUCK ‘N RUN_ when the gun comes up in front of his head. He can almost feel the warmth radiating off it and his idea promptly turns to _no no please no._

“Wait!” _Kitty shut up now._ “Wait, wait-we’ll help you look. Yeah? We’ll help you look for it.”

The man raises an eyebrow and for a second Jonathan thinks he’ll be shot out of spite, but then the gun lowers. A little. It’s not aimed directly at his head, anyway. Not that being shot in the chest is any better. Might be worse. That might lead to him choking to death on blood and bits of his ribs.

Kitty keeps talking, the words becoming nearly unintelligible in her rush to get them out.

“S’better to have more eyes, innit? It’s a big lot, could be anywhere, and killing us means you have to hope no one comes looking-” _Don’t go there, he doesn’t need any ideas._ “-so really making us help is the safer choice-”

“Shut _up_.” She stops talking. “I don’t want your help. You’ll make a run for it.”

He’d love to chime in and say no, but he’s still stuck on ‘open mouth, get shot’.

“We won’t.” she says. “Promise we won’t, just please-”

The gun doesn’t waver and he starts mentally counting his breaths, knowing damn well they’ll be cut off any second-

There’s a flash of lightning outside and the thunder rolls up, building before crashing. The man flinches and _why is he holding a gun when he’s jumpy that’s how accidents happen._

Is that smoke? He risks a glance upwards. Maybe…it’s a little hazy, but that could be fear.

Fires don’t start that fast-

-but with all the lightning, who knows how long it’s been going. And this little shack…they’re sitting in kindling.

Great.

Kitty’s started talking again and he wishes she’d shut up is she trying to get herself shot?

“…wouldn’t even have to dig, just tell us where to-”

There’s a creak-old house settling or old house burning? Whatever it is, it catches the man’s attention. He looks up, grip on the gun slackening.

“What-”

It’s monumentally stupid, but he doesn’t have a better plan-he lunges forward and grabs hold of the gun, pulls hard.

To his utter shock, he’s successful. Nearly falls backwards, actually.

“What the fuck-”

The gun’s heavy in his hands, heavy and hot and he doesn’t know what the hell to do with it now, but he gets a grip on it and points it forward, pretending it’s not shaking.

“Up against the wall.” Hell, _everything_ is shaking tonight, from his voice to his knees.

“Kid, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Now!”

He stands up, trying not to drop the gun, and takes a steadying breath. Kitty gets up and steps back.

He could, feasibly, shoot the man. No one knows he’s here. Hell, if there were ever ‘the world’s easiest murder’, he could commit it right now. He could even say it was an accident, if he ever did get caught. Say his finger twitched or something.

It’d be easy.

“Jonathan.” Kitty’s voice is nearly silent. “We need to go to the police.”

Like they’ll do anything. Like they care.

There’s another **creak** from upstairs. It’d be easy. Hell, if the place really is on fire, he’s got a ready-made body disposal.

Kitty tugs on the back of his shirt.

“Jonathan.”

“He’ll be gone. By the time we get back, he’ll be gone.” He knows he’s speaking way too fast, but she needs to get this, they don’t have a choice. “They won’t find him, you know they won’t-”

“Don’t.” Her voice is still that borderline-silent, not-normal tone. “Just don’t, you…” She takes a shuddery breath. “Please.”

He doesn’t lower the gun.

“If you move, I _will_ shoot you.” he says, forcing his voice not to shake. “Is that clear?”

The man shrugs.

“Sure, kid.”

He’ll follow. Jonathan knows he’ll follow, he should just-

“Do you have a belt?”

“Why.”

He nods toward the bed.

“To keep him from running.”

There’s a clinking noise, followed by fabric-rubbing-on-fabric.

“Yeah.”

“Go sit in front of the bed with your hands behind you.”

If the man has a smart comment, he keeps it to himself and walks, slowly, to the bed. Kitty climbs on top of it and leans down, belt in hand.

Jonathan’s half-expecting the man to try to grab her (and has no idea what to do if he does), but apparently he’s not willing to risk being shot, because he sits still, shaking his head, while she ties his wrists together and knots the belt to the bedpost. He still breathes a little easier when she’s out of grabbing range, knots or no.

He keeps the gun up until they’re on the porch, and it’s not until they’re down the steps that he sets it down and nearly falls down after it. He’s _spent_ -there’s no sleep coming for him for a while, he can just _tell_.

Kitty hugs him-or maybe just can’t stand on her own. He has no idea.

“I thought for a minute you were gonna shoot him.” she mumbles into his shirt. He laughs, a high, strangled noise.

“I thought for a minute I was gonna shoot him.”

They stand there for a minute-Jonathan, for his part, is trying to pull himself together enough to walk home without collapsing in the road.

“Come on.” he says at last, once his legs feel strong enough to take more than five steps. “We need to go.”

They’ve just climbed-slowly, shakily-over the fence, when there’s a splintering noise and a scream. They spin around, wobbling a little, and _dear god_.

The roof’s fallen in. There’s no heaping blaze, but there is smoke and a low, red glow.

“Oh my god.” Kitty whispers. “Jonathan-”

He’s not jumping the fence to pull the man out. It was a cloth belt, maybe he cut through it, or it burned through. Why should he go and see?

He wipes dust and streaks off his glasses and glances up again. There’s no sound, now, but the window’s blowin’ hard and the red glow seems to be getting brighter.

“I’m sure he’s fine.” he says softly. “The knot wasn’t that tight.”

He expects her to protest.

“I guess you’re right.” She steps back, pauses, and takes his sleeve. “It’s late. By the time the police get here, he’ll be gone.”

“Probably.”

They walk in silence for a little while, and the road’s just starting to turn towards home when she stops.

“I can’t sleep, not after that.” Okay. “Want to see if there’s anything at the bridge?”

This time his laugh’s a little more normal.

“Sure.”

THE END

 


End file.
